


strange perceptions

by Lvslie



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, TW Minor Injury, trapped together, with a little humorous twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-23 11:25:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15605250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lvslie/pseuds/Lvslie
Summary: The most essential question to pose, obviously, is why is Hermann presently finding himself contained in a shut-down emergency decontamination unit with only his lab partner as company, having forgone not only the process of actual decontamination but also the process of being noticed by anyone at all.The answer is frustratingly straightforward:because Newton.[Written for the mix of Tumblr prompts: "Don't fucking touch me" + "Look at me - just breathe, okay?"]





	strange perceptions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [freezerjerky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freezerjerky/gifts), [HoloXam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoloXam/gifts).



> Written for mixed Tumblr prompts:
> 
> "Don't fucking touch me" + "Look at me - just breathe, okay?"
> 
> This was SUCH a rollercoaster to write, I hope it delivers. ❤️
> 
> Title from a Louise Glück poem _A Sharply Worded Silence_.
> 
> [15.08.18 – newest version with Fixes because there's been some bugs.]

 

‘D’you think someone’s noticed we’re gone?’ Newton says suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice is tense, expectant, almost ringing in the stale quiet of their confinement.

‘Seeing as we’re _still here_ ,’ Hermann replies at length—oddly hoarse, snapped out of a state of weary half-vigilant dozing. He doesn’t open his eyes. ‘I find it doubtful.’

A pause. A discordant rhythm of unsteady breathing. ‘D’you think someone’s _gonna_ notice?’

‘Hopefully, yes,’ Hermann responds, finding his own voice clipped as he levels the low ceiling with an unfocused stare, ‘as I don’t much fancy remaining in here for longer than necessary. Or longer than I already _have_.’

‘Or maybe they won’t,’ Newton continues, disregarding him, ‘maybe they _won’t_. Maybe they’ll find our crunchy mutated remains some ten years from now, two little heaps of bone, glowing blue. Mutated _beyond recognition_ , mind you, so they’ll have no clue what they’re even finding. Aliens, maybe. Kaiju goddamned hybrids. It’s gonna be the misconception of a decade, which, I mean, _would make sense_ ‘cause when I fuck up, it’s _usually_ big time, so—’

‘While _that’s_ no surprise to me,’ Hermann interjects, caustically, ‘you might want to consider a dark scenario that’s less fundamentally ridiculous, should you decide to continue wasting your breath on hypothesising.’

Miraculously, Newton doesn’t answer. Perhaps he hasn’t been listening at all.

 

* * *

 

_Item: A PPDC-approved, J-tech designed, emergency decontamination unit._

A sparse—not to say _claustrophobic_ —metal-bound compartment, equipped with a door operated on the basis of a precise pressure lock mechanism. 

‘Like a trash chute on a spaceship,’ Newton has once said, which Hermann instantly dismissed as inaccurate.

_But there’s something in it_ , he thinks reluctantly, studying a vague splotch of stray light on the pristine wall. _You spend some time contained_ inside _and you can trust everything around you to grow eerie enough to resemble science-fiction._

Each decontamination unit—as Hermann recalls from his efficiently catalogued array of information from the laboratory OSH protocols—is _also_ equipped with a set of movement-triggered sensors first activating light-sound alarms, then complimentary sets of nozzles and blow-driers, inserted in rows into the walls and ceiling; perpetually ready to spray whatever unfortunate soul gets herded inside under the imminent threat of Kaiju-blue toxic shock.

Right now, the narrow inside is dim and quiet, the darkness dispersed only by a wan streak of light pooling in through the single, circular window. Hermann can see the particles of dust coiling in the light, drawing in the air something like a twitching substitute for the line dividing the laboratory outside. 

It’s beginning to resemble a universal law: a divide, Hermann on its one side, Newton on the other. The line will not be crossed, no matter how tangential their trajectories have unexpectedly become.

 

* * *

 

‘I’m gonna die,’ Newton declares, forehead tucked into his exposed colour-speckled forearm, an expression of anguish detectable on the sparse portion of his face that remains visible. His knees are pulled up to his chest, his other hand trapped between them. He’s breathing unevenly. ‘I’m actually literally gonna _perish_ right here in this goddamned bunker and the whole damn world’s gonna perish as well ‘cause there’ll be no one left to stop the Kaiju from doing it in.’

‘Rather full of ourselves, aren’t we?’ Hermann says through gritted teeth, scowling. ‘I’m sure if that were the case, the world would manage just fine.’

Or as much as one _can_ be scowling, while seated on the floor, propped ungainly against the wall, with his outstretched, dully aching leg almost touching Newton’s hip in the infinitesimal space allocated to both of their bodies.

‘Oh, listen to him,’ Newton says, voice growing shrill even as he doesn’t move, ‘fucking listen, _both_ the royal we and the goddamned conditional clause. Someone give the man a PhD in English goddamned language!’

‘Must you talk, Newton?’ Hermann retorts, icily, one of his hands tightening around his knee, white-knuckled by now. ‘Must you _really?_ Is it essential for your life sustenance? Are you physically incapable of ceasing to endlessly yammer about the most nonsensical—’

‘—fucking _make me_ shut up if you’re so keen on your precious silence, Hermann, cause fuck if I care about your little meditation skit, I’m going crazy in here as it is so if I want to talk then I’m gonna fucking talk—’

‘—and _whose_ fault is it that we’re in here at all?’ Hermann hisses, nearly jumping up along to the emphasis. 

A jarring silence falls for a dense moment, before Newton peels his forehead away from his forearm and focuses his furious eyes on Hermann.

Hermann blinks, thrown off. 

The sight is startling: Hermann hasn’t quite managed to effectively keep track of time ever since the lock-down, and he has apparently also failed to keep track of change in _Newton_.

The thinner, paler Newton of the past few weeks, sullen and jumpy and even easier to wind up. Newton, whose eyes are now bloodshot and hazy, pupils blown wide, and whose damp hair is falling haphazardly onto his glazed forehead. 

‘For the last time,’ Newton grits out, through clenched teeth, ‘I didn’t. _Mean_. To do it.’

It should be warning enough, perhaps: an _item_ , a set of data begging for conclusions. But Hermann is tired and annoyed, and by now entirely too physically uncomfortable to settle for anything other than sheer resilience. Neither of present circumstances are conductible for withstanding Newton’s mind-games. 

So he persists, clinging to his wilful ignorance with the ferocity of a drowning man clinging to flotsam. He scowls back.

‘Do you ever?’ he counters, waspish. ‘Have you _ever_ done anything that wasn’t as accidental as it was disastrous in results?’

‘No, I mean,’ Newton says, sounding shrill and almost hysterical as he throws up one hand in the air and glares at Hermann with manic bloodshot eyes, ‘writing to you in the first place is surely upfucking there!’

Hermann _wants_ to snap back. _Needs_ to snap back. All of his instincts are keening for him to do so—except _one_.

It’s a small process of recognition, as soft as the mechanical door behind him sliding into place, a metaphorical click and hiss inside of Hermann’s brain. 

_Item:_ _Newton’s left shoulder, twitching with odd dissonance to the rest of his body, synced with a sharp intake of breath._

Though analysis be swift, the hypothesis is formulated all too late.

Revelation cuts Hermann off mid-forming a retort, striking in its simplicity. In hindsight it seems obvious: the uncharacteristic discordance of Newton’s restless movements, the vague slur to his words, the scattered focus of red-rimmed, mobile eyes. Sleazy, delayed reactions. Randomly timed rapid twitches. 

Obvious. _Overlooked_.

 

* * *

 

_Item: An emergency decontamination unit door can only be unlocked from the outside._

The most essential question to pose, obviously, is _why_ is Hermann presently finding himself contained in a shut-down emergency decontamination unit with only his lab partner as company, having forgone not only the process of actual decontamination but also the process of being _noticed by anyone at all._

The answer is frustratingly straightforward: _because_ _Newton_.

Or, if one’s inclined to elaborate: because Newton has lost his balance while tending to a particularly ripe-looking, blood-drenched piece of (presumably?) Kaiju liver. Has faltered dangerously and consequently stumbled into his work station, only to drop the offending viscera and come tumbling down to the ground moments later. Has caught himself, at the very last moment, on the edge of Hermann’s desk, miraculously avoiding ending up prostrate in the expanding spill of toxic blue. 

Has sent the acute sensors of the decontamination alarm into full shriek even so.

Then there came congested, flurried seconds of Hermann nearly toppling down his ladder in his rush to reach the ground—and _Newton_ , grabby and clumsy and uncannily disoriented,ditching his utensils and gloves and dragging Hermann roughly by the elbow towards the decontamination unit. Newton punching out the code, Hermann hissing, ‘Let go of me, you _absolute madman_ ,’ Newton cursing under his breath as the door first opens, then locks with the steady hiss of released pressure. The alarm, fading. And Hermann cringing, waiting for the inevitable sting of cold disinfectant water and then—

—the light flickering. Dimming. There’s another hiss, difficult to place, and a low wheeze of dwindling power. Hermann can see Newton’s face, _close_ , with round eyes gleaming strangely in the sudden half-light, with mouth parted as he breathes in and out, shallowly.

‘What’s goin’ on?’ Newton then says, quietly, incongruently. One of his hands is still curled loosely around Hermann’s elbow, radiating curious warmth through the layers, the sensation only just short of entrancing. 

_Item: Tangent reached. Predicted trajectory of bodies in need of revision._

And then the unforgivable faltering: for a brief audacious moment, Hermann is caught by the softened colours around them, the softer edge of Newton’s almost scared whisper; caught in a thought of being presented a chance to act on something like an _impulse_.

Then comes reason.

‘I think the power’s gone out,’ says Hermann, coldly. ‘I think _you’ve_ gotten _us_ trapped.’

Newton’s hand falls from his elbow with swift finality which simply _must_ be either comic or tragic. 

 

* * *

 

_Item: An outsider’s opinion on the person of Hermann Gottlieb—too intense, intimidatingly so. Unnerving._

_Protocol: Implement genuine disinterest where applicable; feigned disinterest where needed._

‘Newton,’ Hermann says in a changed voice, much quieter, irrationally gripped with guilt. ‘When have you last slept?’

‘Fuck you, dude,’ Newton mutters in response, tucking his face into his forearm once again and twitching involuntarily even as he does so—which is answer _enough_. ‘What do you care.’

‘I _do_ care, inasmuch as I suspect your answer may well explain our current predicament,’ Hermann says slowly, deliberately, refusing to be swayed. ‘When have you last slept?’

There’s momentary silence—briefly, Hermann thinks Newton won’t deign him with any answer at all.

But then an answer comes, far more hostile and jittery than Hermann would guess it to be. It occurs to him that Newton may be much further gone than he’s thought—and that he has been, in fact, concealing it far _better_ than Hermann’s thought him capable of.

‘It’s not that easy,’ Newt snaps, sagging even further into his corner and staring at the adjacent wall. His eyes look glassier than before, bleary behind his lopsided glasses, _unseeing_. His left knee is twitching. 

‘It’s not fucking—not everyone’s got it so easy, hoo boy, it’s night-time, time to shut off the brain! It’s not—there’s no _shutting_ _off,_ okay? It doesn’t work that way, _I_ don’t really work that way, I sometimes—I tried. I did. And by the way, fuck you, Hermann, this is _so_ not your goddamned business. _So_ not your—I don’t ask you what you’re doing in your little dragon den, okay? And it’s not like I’m useless, I’m _useful_ , I work. I work, I’m _working_ , okay. I just _slipped_ , god, happens to everybody, it’s not the fucking end of the world, like you said I can’t really be the only person responsible—

‘Newt,’ Hermann cuts in, loudly, beyond alarmed, ‘ _stop,_ for god’s sake. You have to breathe.’

The abrupt silence that falls in the other corner of the cell seems to Hermann awfully like breath is being _held_. For a brief moment, he experiences a nearly painful urge to reach out and touch Newton, as though to ascertain whether all his constituents are still in their right places—and as ridiculous as he finds the very notion, Hermann can’t quite stifle it. He sits straight, strained and stone-faced; _miserable_ until he hears the other man swallow and exhale, shakily.

Newton seems to be blinking rapidly, eyes still focused ( _unfocused?_ ) on the metal pane in front of him. Hermann tries to force himself to feel reassured. _No avail._

‘Newton?’ he ventures, warily. In hindsight, the preceding use of the nickname seems like a potentially catastrophic misstep.

‘I’m breathing alright,’ Newton finally mutters, mercifully declining to comment on Hermann’s address—but even this sounds _wrong_ , the wrong kind of angry, the wrong kind of hollow. ‘Any other great advice?’

His gaze intercepts with Hermann’s for a scarce, tense second—then he swiftly looks away, clearly unable to stand the other’s focused, unmoving eyes.

At a loss, Hermann finds himself wordlessly shaking his head. Newton can’t _see_ him, not what with how decisively he’s looking away, but Hermann can’t bring himself to speak. His one hand is now clutched helplessly around his cane’s handle, the other nearly hurting his own knee with its steely grip.

‘Ah, _fuck_ ,’ Newton whispers. He’s shifted in his corner, pushing himself up slightly against the wall—and now he’s wincing, eyes screwed shut as he clutches possessively at his own hand, whole body radiating tension.

_Item: Pain is an obstacle to efficiency, while perceived weakness is an obstacle to credibility—but only if allowed._

_Protocol: If unable to diminish pain, diminish its appearances._

It strikes Hermann that the reason of Newton’s discomfort stretches beyond strictly psychological: the misgivings are suddenly all too familiar. He frowns, squinting in the half-light to catch a better look at the suspicious limb currently trapped between Newton’s knees. 

‘What have you—’ he trails off, spying the vague splotch of red on rumpled white fabric. ‘Newton, have you hurt yourself?’

Another pause, and Hermann counts three unsteady exhalations before the reply is delivered.

‘Uh, yeah.’ Newt bites at his lower lip. ‘I guess—I guess when I triggered the system or, or I mean, _before,_ I must’ve … uh, sliced it open. A little bit. With the … the scalpel or something. S’no big deal.’

‘But the scalpel—’

‘ _Wasn’t_ dirty. Calm down, dude, it’s not like I’m gonna poison you by diffusion or whatever. And to be honest, I probably just cut myself on the edge of your desk anyway. And that, as we both know, is goddamned _sterile_.’

‘That’s _not_ what I meant,’ Hermann insists wearily, feeling irrationally stung by the assumption. ‘Ionly meant—’

‘Yeah, fuck me if I care,’ Newton mutters, interrupting. He hunches in on himself, head tucked between his shoulders, slow owlish blinks of tired eyes aimed at the sparse strait of uninhabited floor between them. He’s still clutching at the wrist. It occurs to Hermann that he’s clenching his jaw as though to stifle something.

For a moment, all he does is watch, blinking. It’s a familiar state, all in all: being torn between taking action and retreating back to the safer mind-space where he cannot be held accountable for whatever his rash impulses dictate him. There’s good reason _not_ to show Newton any concern,too, grounded in the existing off-chance of being mocked for it afterwards, and all too probable with the existing precedent. Under normal circumstances, it suffices for Hermann to default into cold withdrawal.

But there’s a catch: Hermann, too, is _tired_. He hasn’t been sleeping well— _who has, these days?_ And the least uncomfortable position attainable in the unit is still far from lenient on his leg. The edge of his usual self-protection is thinned, blurry. 

And right now, what he sees is Newton’s wounded hand; what he perceives is something simple: that the cut is irritated by the thread bracelets wound tight around it; that all Newton’s clumsy compulsive tugging does is further increase the pressure.

‘Let me have a—’ Hermann begins softly, only semi-audible, moving forward. It’s rare in the sense that it’s _instinctive_ , lacking any forethought beyond the plain imperative to spare Newton pain.

Newton flinches away before Hermann’s hands manage to as much as brush the air around his skin. His tone is rigid.

‘Don’t fucking _touch_ me.’

And Hermann freezes.

 

* * *

 

_Item: An plain envelope stamped by the US Postal Service. Scribbled intelligible writing._

His own pale fingers, tracing disjointed ungrammatical sentences pressed onto cheap printer paper—and Hermann himself, futilely trying to either dismiss or justify his quickened pulse andthe unwarranted sensation of warmth spreading along with the touch, through the nerve endings,seeming almost profane as he reads and wishes—he _wishes—_

_How cool it would be if we could meet,_ Newton writes, with his usual disarming straightforwardness. _Sometimes I’m not even sure if you’re even real, dude. You know? Like maybe I’ve made you up, maybe you’re just some weird long-distance hallucination I’m having. Or some clever AI spying on … I don’t know. Human biology trivia? If so, shit, SORRY for being kinda incomprehensible? Can’t imagine much can be deduced from my patterns of behavior, tbh. (I wouldn’t mind you being a robot, just for the record.) But on the off-chance that you ARE human, I think I’d have to touch you first, before we’d even get to talking, just to make sure you ARE real. Yeah, would be cool to be able to do it._

Hermann’s hand stills on the paper. He feels ashamed at the way his breathing has stopped, at the way he has to swallow and close his eyes to compose himself. _Oh, for God’s sake._

_Newton,_ he later writes, shaking his head in reproachful disbelief to quell his own excitement, _for someone who—as you keep insinuating—hopes to achieve academic credibility, you need to tone down considerably on the amount of science-fiction media you consume and saturate._

He pauses. _Though I’m sure a meeting would provide you with all sufficient data to prove I am, in fact, human._

Then comes Stockholm, bringing stinging bright light and bringing _Newton_ , loud-voiced and brash and _wonderful;_ much too shocking with all his liveliness and blunt cheek. There’s no _touching_ , there’s just Hermann tensing and withdrawing—overwhelmed—and there’s a dreadful, cutting edge beginning to emerge in Newton’s voice. It’s a matter of hours before it all finally takes shape of resentment.

_Item: Rejection. Repulsion. Disillusionment._

In hindsight—obvious. But sometimes even Hermann cannot rationalise. Obvious or not, it hurts all the same. 

Hurts unbearably.

 

* * *

 

_Item: Expected trajectory re-entered._

There’s a beat. Silence, punctured only with Newton’s ragged breathing. Only a moment for Hermann’s eyelashes to flutter once, rapidly, for his mouth to purse into a thin line. He withdrawsas far as he can from Newton and presses himself against the wall, stiffened.

‘As you wish,’ he says coolly.

But it stings a little too much. Or maybe it’s not even that, maybe it’s just that Hermann really _is_ too weary to act level-headed—either way, he’s unable to quite stop himself, even while resenting himself for it.

He throws in, bitterly, ‘And as you clearly find me so repulsive that you won’t stand having your bleeding wrist examined, I hope you have a good time contracting an infection.’

‘Fuck you,’ Newton whispers, and for some reason, it almost sounds like he’s crying.

‘Yes, I believe you’ve already said that,’ Hermann manages through near-resistant vocal cords. His hands twist at his sides and he will not, _he will not_ allow any more emotion here. It’s a caustic echo of Newton’s earlier words when he says, ‘Any other great advice?’

There’s a pause.

‘Sometimes I hate you so much,’ Newton then says, quivering. ‘I hate you so fucking _much_ , I can’t believe it.’

Hermann’s fist spasms on his knee.

‘ _Why?’_ he demands, bluntly, before he can stop himself.

He hasn’t meant to say it, hasn’t meant to _allow_ his mouth to quiver, or hands twitch and unclench. But all forces have conditions necessary to remain active, and all objects have breaking points. There’s limits even to resilience. And all of the sudden, none of Hermann’s vast and intricate reasons for maintaining what _shields_ him matter anymore. 

What’s even left to shield? He hasn’t _meant_ to let Newton under his skin, either—and yet there he is, entrenched so deep that even this, even _this_ doesn’t manage to warrant hate.

Swallowing, Hermann closes his eyes. His ribs feel too heavy. _Foolish_.

‘Because,’ Newton says, and his voice is different now, rounder and hoarser and soft again under all the jarring shrill edges it’s assumed moments prior. 

‘Cause you’re the love of my fucking life,’ he says, almost brightly, and with some dreadful half-slack expression that’s almost a smile, ‘and for a moment there you had me thinking it’s gonna mean anything. Like it’s gonna work, or whatever, you’re gonna love me back and it’s—kind of really fucking _terrible_.’

Hermann’s brain short-circuits.

The first reaction is a rush of blood, burning up the veins, quicker even than thesubsequent hitching breath, entirely involuntary.A _shock_ of sensation, branching out in Hermann’s ribcage, expanding and contracting at the same time, cutting out other senses, tunnelling vision, sharpening it. It’s almost _too much._

Then comes reason.

‘You—’

_Item: Newton’s shaking arm barely holding his knees locked to his chest, his wristbent and pressed to his shirt, staining it red. Exhaustion._

‘You’re not making _sense_ ,’ Hermann says, his throat constricting. Because he isn’t. He cannot be. One of them still can’t breathe and Hermann isn’t sure _which_. 

But sometimes, division doesn’t come quite so easy.

‘No, I am,’ Newton says, in the same morbidly happy voice, so dreadfully level, staring vacantly into space. ‘That’s the fucking icing on the cake, Hermann—I honest to god tried, I tried to hate you proper but it’s just, just _not_ —’

He inhales sharply and laughs, the sound rather hysterical. ‘Man, I am—’ another shaky exhale, a twitch of nervous movement, ‘— _so_ going to regret this the second my stupid goddamned brain registers what I’ve just gone and done here. I really need to shut up sometimes, you know? You _know_. You’ve told me. I hate it when you’re right, and I hate you, only I _don’t_ , I—I’m so fucking _stupid_ , Hermann, you have no fucking clue.’

Newton closes his eyes, as though physically overwhelmed. He’s shaking again, and now it doesn’t look like a _symptom_ anymore but the progress of disintegration itself, swung into motion.

Hermann blinks. His heart stutters.

Once.

_ Twice. _

And without another thought, _not one bloody thought, not ever_ _again_ , Hermann moves forward and lifts himself up onto one knee—deftly unclenching Newton’s tense fingers; methodically pulling at the thread around his wrist and letting it come undone. He barely registers Newton’s mumbled protests—lacking the initial ferocity altogether, instead coming out defeated, ‘Don’t—don’t, leave it, leave it. _God_ , Hermann, goddamn you, I don’t want your—leave it—’

‘I love you,’ Hermann says, a little too loud. He’s too shellshocked to formulate any blanket thoughts around it. It’s easier to just _voice_ it, acknowledge and for once let the lips follow through and comply with intention. Silence follows, thorough and frightening—and Hermann is focused on his task, slowly working the bracelet loose, dedicated. ‘You _are_ stupid, yes. I wish it mattered. It doesn’t.’

The bracelet comes off, and Hermann is left with Newton’s soft trembling hand caught between his own hands—pale and rough from hours spent leaning on his cane and writing with chalk. 

He reaches blindly to his pocket with one of them, traces Newton’s pulse-point with the thumb of the other. And still not thinking very much, and _still_ not looking up, Hermann wraps his handkerchief around the wrist, then bends his head and kisses it, right where the blood keeps thrumming under the fabric.

_Item: Fuck the trajectory._

 

* * *

 

The door doesn’t magically open, the silence is not magically broken, nor is light restored. And eventually a moment will come when Hermann will be obliged to look up and meet Newton’s eyes.

‘Hermann.’

And, yes, there’s still _two_ players in the game, and for the first time the game seems _equal_ , so little acts of bravery intertwine within hoarse words and cold hands. And Hermann doesn’t let go, won’t let go, won’t be _made_ to—

Newton whispers, ‘Hermann, _what_.’

Still cradling Newton’s wrist, Hermann says, in a distressed voice, ‘Well, I could ask you the same.’

Newton’s hand convulses and tightens around Hermann’s, pulling him up and forcing them face to face. What Hermann meets are the same vulnerable eyes, only looking much, _much_ more lost. 

‘No, are you saying, are you _saying,’_ Newt presses, insistent, ‘that we, that we could have—that this has been _mutual_ for all this _goddamned time_ —’

There’s a chance here, once again, to either proceed or backtrack. There’s more items to catalogue: Newton’s hand in Hermann’s, the expectant tense quiet around them.

‘Yes,’ Hermann says, quietly. ‘Yes, I think—’

Before he’s able to finish the sentence, Newton makes a quiet strangled sound and grows suddenly limp. 

‘No, no— _hush_ , this is,’ Hermann says urgently, reaching out, ‘Newt. There’s _time_. Nothing’s—oh, _darling_ , don’t. _Don’t_.’

But Newton’s face is already damp where it’s pressed into Hermann’s collarbone, and his free hand bunches in the fabric of his stiff-ironed shirt, and it is all such a dizzying, ground-breaking difference from the earlier repelled _flinching away_ , that Hermann feels like the world has turned. Maybe it has. 

‘Can I?’ Newt belatedly mutters, shaking so violently Hermann nearly loses his balance. ‘I mean, fuck, _sorry_.’

‘Don’t—yes, you _can_ ,’ Hermann insists, quietly, his lips finding purchase at the top of Newton’s head. ‘Newton, _breathe_ —it’s alright. It’s—it’s good. Isn’t it?’

There comes the dreadful question, cutting cold through Hermann’s involuntary heart-stopping elation that’s erupted somewhere inside him. _Isn’t it?_

‘No, Hermann,’ Newton counters, plaintively. ‘it’s not, cause there’s no—there’s no fucking _time_ I, I mean, the Kaiju and—it’s been _years_ —and god, _I fucked up.’_

_Ah._

‘At the very least, _we_ have,’ Hermann counters, half-relieved and half-marvelling at his own clarity, at the method with which he braces himself against the wall and pulls Newton closer, stabilising them both. 

_But that_ , he realises, _is what comes with feeling_ needed _._

The thought is almost like a head-rush, frightening. 

‘Fucked up, that is,’ he continues, slowly. Newton twitches slightly at that, as though reacting to the rare sound of profanity coming from Hermann’s mouth. ‘This … _this_ level of misunderstanding can by no means be solitary achievement.’

Newton only clutches tighter at his shirt, sniffling.

‘And there _is_ time,’ Hermann says after a moment, with quiet insistence, drawing his hand upwards Newton’s back to card through his hair. _Soft._

There’s a beat.

‘Oh yeah? There is? Cause what did you do, fucking _calculate_ it?’ Newton then mumbles, damply, sounding overdramatic and sulky—and Hermann very nearly _laughs_ because yes, that’s good, that’s _familiar_.

‘If I had,’ he says, amused, feeling bizarrely as though Newton’s physical warmth is seeping into him both literally and figuratively, injecting life into something that’s felt dead for more than seems even _possible_ , ‘you would hardly be able to grasp even the most basic of my equations, Newton, so I find your skepticism entirely unfounded.’ 

Newton’s choked sound of indignant protest is _almost_ worth the loss of contact as he snaps up.

That, and Newton’s outrage melts off almost _instantly_ at sight of Hermann’s face. That’s when Hermann himself realises he’s smiling. That he can’t quite stop, in fact.

It’s a strange thought. It’s a strange thing to be doing.

‘Dude,’ Newton says, something like wonder softening his features, ‘don’t tell me it took getting locked up in a broken disinfection unit and a goddamned panic attack for us to resolve what I’ve been agonising over for five goddamned years.’

‘Why would I tell you something you’ve already pointed out?’ Hermann says, indulgent enough to continue stroking Newton’s hair, spurred on by the tiny leaning motion with which Newton chases his hand. It all still feels overwhelmingly surreal. ‘That seems excessive.’

‘You’re such a dick,’ Newton says in marvel, blinking owlishly. All at once, it hits Hermann full-force that he’s subject to a level of hyper-focused scrutiny he’s never quite experienced before, _especially_ not from Newton. The thought alone is frightening enough to still his hand mid-air.

‘Yes, well,’ Hermann points out, stiffly, suddenly acutely aware of all his usual apprehensions and shortcomings. His eyes skitter away, colour rising in his cheeks. ‘Takes one to know one, I—I’d think.’

Newton is still staring. Hermann is still not.

Then Newton moves forward, nose nudging at Hermann’s to tilt his head and then it’s—oh. _Oh_.

Then Newton’s kissing him, which is both exhilarating and entirely _unfair_ because of course it’s Hermann’s turn to lose all control of the situation altogether, if simply by shock value. It’s dizzying, _warm_ , not remotely predictable, and Newton’s hands are roaming up his sides and spine to find purchase at something, so Hermann finds purchase at the nape of his neck _instead_ , kissing back with fairly stunning ferocity.

It all gets a bit breathless after that, and Newton does pull away, still clinging to Hermann’s shoulders and having him chase his lips—until Hermann realises that, _yes_ , that’s what he’s been saying—they do both need to _breathe_.

‘Holy fuck,’ Newton whispers and Hermann thinks, _yes_.

There’s not much time to think anything _else—_ not before the lights come on, sharp and blinding, illuminating Newton’s giddy face mere _inches_ from Hermann’s, and Hermann is left entirely too dazed to add two to two and understand _what’s going o—_

The frigid disinfectant water hits them with a shrill screech of noise.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are what hugs are ❤️
> 
> [Or, you can find my nonsense [here.](http://lvslie.tumblr.com/)]


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